


A Kind Hand Will Always Reach Out

by JessenoSabaku



Category: One Piece
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessenoSabaku/pseuds/JessenoSabaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franky Family's Motors has gone under, and the Ohara district went up in flames. "But even in your darkest hour," Tom had said, "A kind hand will always reach out." AU. SUPER angsty. But also friendship, and kind of happy if you squint. Kind of an AU what-if Franky and Robin had given up at the execution grounds of Enies Lobby. Oneshot done as stress-reliever, so may suck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind Hand Will Always Reach Out

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don’t own One Piece, and am not claiming any profit from the series. This is written only for fun and writing critique. I hope you can enjoy it.
> 
> INTRODUCTION: I’ve been in kind of a bad place the past couple months. Sorting my life out, and making decisions about my future. Still working on Raiding His Fridge and 11 Days with the Cursed Sword and Child of Bone, but I needed just a minute to write something that made me feel good on the inside.

The sun set on the final day of life for Franky Family’s Motors. Tomorrow the guillotine would fall, a man in a suit would come and have to pry the deed out of Franky cold, dead hands. Four years of fighting, and Franky felt no reason for it anymore. He sat in his shop, his fellow workers gone home for the night, and stared at his reflection in a sheet of metal he’d tempered just before closing time.

Yeah, he realized looking into his own eyes, he’d sold this shop. He’d given up. Whatever money came of it would go to Mozu and Kiwi and the guys who brought him scrap metal every day. Their jobs would all be gone, though, and there was nothing he could do to help them. They’d scatter like clouds against the evening sun, and whatever money came of it didn’t matter to Franky. Nothing mattered anymore.

He briefly wondered if Iceburg would help him out, and immediately recognized that as a fate worse than death. Yeah, sure, go back to Water 7 after cutting all contact for three years and chasing a stupid dream. All Franky wanted was to fix old cars, meet new people, and smile. Such a simple life, lived avoiding an old memory of a car crash, Franky’s nice red motorcycle blending with the blood on the asphalt, and the large, bearded joyful man who after that day would never laugh again.

Franky cast the metal aside with a loud clang and walked to the open garage shutter, blue moonlight pouring in and swallowing him whole. There was nothing he could take from this place, nothing that mattered anymore where he was going. Even his old tools were abandoned on the front desk. His car, parked out front, waited patiently in the dark. He decided it’d been kept waiting long enough, and stepped outside, pulling the shutter closed and locking it.

Just as he stood up, the sound of an engine brought him to attention. He turned and saw an old, black Toyota truck pull into the parking lot. Confused, he watched as the headlights switched off and out jumped a woman, almost as dark as the night and with pitch-black hair. She jogged up to him, face covered in sweat.

“Are you open right now?” she asked breathlessly.

“Sorry, just closed,” Franky told her.

“But I was told this shop stayed open past midnight—it’s only eleven o’ clock right now—”

“Not tonight,” Franky said with a quiet smile. “We went under. I was asked to get my shit and get out before twelve.”

“No,” she gasped painfully, stepping in nervous circles, “No, no, you don’t understand. Please, I just need someone to buff out these scratches.”

She grabbed him by the arm, grip surprisingly strong for such slender fingers, and guided him to the truck to show him the “scratches.” But what Franky saw were four distinct holes punched through the hood, bits of metal bent up to show the driving force of the impact. He stared in shock.

“I … I’m sorry, I can’t fix this. Even if I were to go over my time, it’d be best to put in an order for a completely new hood—”

“There’s got to be something you can do,” she said, still holding his arm tightly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please,” she said softly, tone firm and demanding. “Money is no object. I will pay any amount if you can just make this alright.”

Turning to the woman beside him, Franky found her hidden behind a curtain of long hair. She looked to be about the same age as him. She stood tall and proud, in heels and a cute purple dress, posture unnaturally straight.

“Is there something wrong?” he found himself asking. That got her to raise her eyes—deep chocolate brown.

She scrutinized him closely, mouth twitching, and then slowly asked, “Did you know that the Ohara district went up in flames today?” The mechanic shook his head. “The worst part is what happens after the flames die down.”

Franky glanced toward the hole-punched hood. “Call the police. I’ll open the shop for that.”

“Call the police,” she repeated acidly, and with a healthy dose of hysterical fear, “you call them, and see what they’ll do.”

Silence fell between them, and her hand was still holding tight. He felt manicured nails digging into the cloth of his work jumper. They watched the moon dance over the black painted truck for a few minutes, until the sound of sirens wailing over the horizon brought them back to reality.

“Sometimes …” Franky said, looking off in the direction the sirens were coming from, “Sometimes you can never make it right.” He looked to her. “You know?”

She paused, watching him with those tired eyes and then nodded wearily. She let her hand fall from his arm and to her side.

“You said your shop went under?” she asked.

“Yup. Well, I had to sell it. I’ve worked on nothing but cars all my life, never went to school or made any friends in high places—this place is my life. But even those things pass too, I guess.”

They lapsed back into silence again, though only for a few moments this time, as the sound of sirens was slowly drawing closer.

“Hey,” Franky asked suddenly, and then hesitated. He ran a hand through his gelled hair. “I … I was thinking about going to the railroad tracks.”

He felt her eyes on him, piercing like a hawk’s.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah. I was going to drive, but … I think now I’m in the mood for a walk.”

She breathed in deeply. “… I think I’m in the mood for a walk too.”

They exchanged smiles. Franky started walking, and the woman followed him wordlessly, as if it were natural to follow a complete stranger to a secluded place in the middle of the night.

“There’s a gas station near there. Let’s go pick up some stuff while we’re there,” Franky suggested, and received a simple nod in return. “Oh, by the way, I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Nico Robin,” she said, holding her hand out to shake his. “You?”

“Cutty Flam,” he answered, gratefully accepting the gesture. “But you can just call me Franky.”

They stopped by the gas station and picked up some junk food snacks and drinks—potato chips, candy bars, and lots and lots of cola for Franky. Robin wore a peaceful smile all the while, letting her willful companion make terrible off-color jokes all the way out of the store and up to the train tracks that ran through the middle of the town. Sometimes, the things he said were so dumb, she even laughed.

Sitting down on the tracks, they splayed out their treasure trove of foodstuffs and chowed down, chugging liters of cola. Franky told her about Iceburg, about the man’s prospering ship-making business and his energetic vice president. He told her about Kokoro and Tom, and about his cherished motorcycle on the day of the accident. Then Robin told him about the Ohara district, about her travelling mother and the bookworms she lived with. About her language, and about what happened when the flames in the district finally died down. They talked about limitless things, stupid jokes and childhood memories, and at the end of it all nothing mattered. They simply had fun biding their time.

The horn sounded off in the distance, signaling an iron giant’s approach. They both looked off in its direction, unbothered. There was still time. Time to talk about Robin’s failed sewing class last week, and the time Franky was kicked out of the public pool for wearing an indecent speedo. Two completely different strangers managed to meet and talk like old friends—they’d remember it forever, the feeling of both not caring and caring too much.

The horn sounded again, then twice more. The giant drew closer. Clanking, charging metal screeched a broken song drawing closer and closer. They looked in its direction again, and saw the horse approaching.

“Almost makes you wish for more time,” Franky said wistfully, taking another long swig of cola.

“Almost,” Robin said, and they shared another smile. Then she reached out her hand and laid it on top of his. “I’m glad that I met you.”

He clenched her hand, tears spilling over his cheeks. She moved to comfort him, saying, “Don’t be afraid of what you’ve chosen.”

“I’m not,” he said, wiping his eyes, laughing thickly. “I’m happy.”

One look at her face and he could tell she was happy too. “Maybe the train will stop,” she said.

“Maybe,” he agreed. Yet the ground rumbled and the tracks groaned around them, signaling the giant’s continued approach. Robin climbed up into Franky’s lap, where he held her with one big arm. They closed their eyes and waited.

The horse rode forth, unseeing of the two trespassers in its path. It galloped forward a hundred feet in what felt half a second. The horn roared one more time, the wind and dust picked up and shot into the air like shrapnel. Franky felt a gust of hot air blow across his face as the deafening sound approached like a tidal wave.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

 

 

“Remember, Franky,” Tom had said over breakfast on the day of the accident, “If there’s anything in life you should remember, it’s that even in your darkest moments, a kind hand will always reach out. So don’t be afraid to follow through on your decisions, and chase your dreams. Someone will be beside you through it all, though maybe you don’t know about them yet.”

“Uh, alright,” Franky mumbled intelligently around a mouthful of food. “Why are you telling me this now? Your corn flakes got you sentimental?”

His father and mentor let out a wheezing laugh. “I just felt it was time to tell you.”

“Alright then,” Franky shrugged, shoveling down the rest of his breakfast and standing at the table. “You ready to go see the boat show downtown?”

“I’ve been ready since last night!”

They bade goodbye to Kokoro and Iceburg, climbing onto Franky’s red motorcycle. Franky handed his helmet back to Tom, but the older man insisted Franky should put it on instead. Thinking nothing of it, Franky did so. Then he revved up his engine and drove off down the street with Tom for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Don’t attack me! It’s happy in a weird way! You just have to squint to see it. Sorry if it comes across as too melodramatic or something, but what can you do when it’s a story you’ve shat out in about an hour and a half. Hope you enjoy it anyway!


End file.
